


After the Storm

by stormelemental13



Category: Warhammer - All Media Types, Warhammer Fantasy
Genre: Character Death, Magic, Multi, Original Character(s), POV Female Character, Vampires, Wizards
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-22 20:47:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19999990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormelemental13/pseuds/stormelemental13
Summary: The Storm of Chaos is broken and the Old World endures. Now those who remain must navigate the devastation left in the storm's wake. The northern provinces lie stricken, perhaps never to rise. Waaaghs continue to stream into the empire from the South and East. Remnants of Archaon's armies spread like disease through the wounded Empire and Kislev. And from the cursed land of Sylvania, Mannfred von Carstein declares the Vampire Counts ascendant once more. The Storm has shaken the world's foundations, and dark things rise from their sleep.Into this a fledgling wizard is tossed, and becomes involved in an scheme that may alter the fate of this world.





	1. Chapter 1

# After the Storm

### A Walk in the Woods.

I should have been horrified, or terrified, or both. I’d used those emotions up already though. Terror as the beastmen had hunted me and as my spells failed to stop them. Horror as they dragged me to the waystone and I realized I would be used to corrupt a ley-line.

Terror and horror.

Clawed hands gouge as they tie me to the standing stone.

Horror and terror.

The bray-shaman raises the knife as Morrslieb glows in the night sky.

I have nothing left to feel.

 **Whump.** Darkness crushes the shaman and blots out the moons and fire. It shifts, and some things die, but the darkness prevents me from seeing what. Then the roar.

I’d never heard a minotaur until today, and wish I had been able to go longer without it. Hunger, fury, and the will of dark gods are in that sound. And bits of rotten flesh on in its breath. A very physical sensation that roar. I don’t know whether the wind of it knocked me down or just rattled my mind, but I fell, and the hunt was over. The roar has a rival though. A screech of contempt for anything that might challenge it. Arrogant and full of dark magic.

The darkness shifts, and now I can see them both. Bull-headed beast that rivals a troll, swollen with pestilence. An ax for giants, old and full of corruption, is raised high, and darkness strikes. Claws pierce chest and fasten on ribs. Taloned feet perch on bloated belly. Wings with hands seize ax. It crouches there on the bull’s chest for a moment, coiled and tensing as the beast stumbles, then the darkness straightens. Curved knives slice down and down, eviscerating rotten flesh. A wave of filth tumbles out over the darkness. The darkness stands erect, like a triumphant dancer embracing their partner. The beast tries to make a sound, but nothing remains to give voice. It has been dressed and hollowed out.

I sifted and strain, here and in the Aether, but it doesn’t do much good. These ropes are enough for ships, little wizards don’t even bear consideration. In the Aethyr, the winds warn of a fate worse than death. This place is full of power, pure winds like solid lightning running through the ley-line. The lightning snaps and twists from the putrescent corruption, green and yellow, that the shaman gathered for the ritual. And front of me is darkness. An eclipse against the lightning and rot, black and solid as frozen tar. Dhar, and lots of it. Now is not the time to reach out.

Surprisingly, the darkness also doesn’t reach out for the ley-line. Dhar flows, sluggishly, but relentlessly. It taints and devours. That’s what it does. It can’t do otherwise. And nothing so full of magic could resist the power here.

I smile. Perhaps the student doesn’t know everything, because this is as Dhar as Dhar gets, and it barely dents the ley-line. Even as I watch, in the Aethyr the darkness seems to fade. Not growing weaker, but harder to see. Darkness moving into shadow.

In the physical realm, it drops and turns. Kill already forgotten. Four limbs that end in curving talons or sword-like claws. Wings big enough for sails, flex and settle. Bat-like wings, with too human hands at the joint. The wings are high, too high, behind the upper limbs. An unnatural creature, they should be the upper limbs. Genius observation, oh Jade Magister, the giant monster filled with darkest magic doesn’t conform to the natural laws of form.

The head tilts on its neck, a snappy motion. The neck isn’t short, but not long as a dragon’s would be. The head parallel to the spine. It stalks forward, a perversion of cat-like grace. The face is hideous. Bat and bird at first, then a bit of human, just enough to make it worse. A maw, not a mouth or beak, filled with incisors, fangs, and triangular saws.

It opens wide. Wide enough to swallow me whole. And I smell nothing. The reek of the beastmen. The tang of their blood. The stench of offal. And not a thing from what’s in front of me. And now it laughs. Not like a person, but I know but it’s laughing. A bit of the laugh is at me, but mostly it’s reserved for itself. A personal laugh.

 _“Ghyran.”_ It says. _“Debt.”_ It croaks and snaps the sounds. This thing was not meant for speech, at least no human tongue.

A negligent swipe and the mooring ropes are cut. Shaky legs are better than kneeling in the mess at my feet. The ground squishes.

 _“Well.”_ I step to the left. Its head follows. “Well. Well now. By the eight bloody winds flowing from Tzeentch’s arse, now what.”

The head keeps following. As I move behind, the head flows backward and the body follows. Now the horrible thing is looking at me in backbend, and the head twisted so it’s right side up. As though it wasn’t grotesque enough.

_“Fire”_

It flips over. Wings unfurl and muscles tense. A gust of wind and it sails into the night. And it’s gone. Silence.

A few steps down the knoll and I hear it coming back dragging something. Now it walks on hindlimbs, bent like an old man. It drags a tree, dead, but firm. Not ancient, but enough to make stout beams. Half a century maybe? Claws chop into the wood like long axes. Soon enough the tree is logs. I sit a short distance from the base of the hill. It feels like I’m in darkness, but I’m certain it can still see me. Can’t see the point of running, and I’m feeling wretched as is. My wounds are infected with gods know what, some plagues of Nurgle no doubt, and I just want to curl up and vomit. Besides, how often do you get to witness a thing of dark magic build a cleansing fire to purify a waystone.

Drag, chop. It’s got another tree. The last one stacked in a neatly around the waystone.

Rubbish. The grass is cold and wet, and I’m shaking. This whole thing is obviously a hallucination brought on by disease. Or I’m dead. Yes, that’s it. I’m dead and this is some sick joke before my soul is torn apart by Chaos. A terrible, terrible joke...

Vileness reaches for my soul. It’s standing above me with the axe now. This makes more sense. _“Well.”_ I try to sneer, _“Had your fun then, let’s get on with it.”_

 _“Burn.”_ It gestures to the stone. The knoll is dark. All the fires are out, but I can still see enough by the light of Morrslieb. The pyre covers the top of the hillock.

 _“Why?”_ Struggling to get to my feet. _“What in the four hells is your game? You could have started the fire with their fires. I’m sure you could do it yourself.”_

It just blinks, and jerks its head towards the top.

Trudge, stumble, trudge. _“Alright magister. Let’s see if you can do the most basic, universal spell, without turning into a chaos spawn. Don’t worry girl you can do it. Oh, I’m sure I can. I’m only dying. It’s not that bad. Well, you’re talking to yourself so it is that bad and you’ve gone nutters.”_

Focus. Breathe. See the Aethyr. Look to the heat in all life. Look for fire. Find Aqshy. The tiniest breath. Just a spark. Release.

A little bit of flame. Just enough to set the tinder alight. That was harder than it used to be. The candle spell is something all apprentices learn, but it ultimately stems from the red wind. Every year it becomes harder to grasp.

It’s behind me again, turning I can see it more clearly than before. It’s hide is grey, some places covered with matted fur, the back especially, others bare skin, the lower part of the limbs. It’s belly. A crest of quills runs along its spine.

It snaps its jaws and waves claws toward another pyre, down the hill. The beastmen bodies piled on top. How many trees did it gather while I was sitting?

I point at the wood and grunt. _“See, I can do it too. I know you can speak, more than single words even. Why don’t you?”_ It doesn’t dignify me with a response.

This time I take a burning piece from the existing fire. First rule of living, and sane, wizards. If you can not use magic, don’t.

After the fire begins to grow. It grasps the axe and breaks it over a knee. It seems an absurdly human thing to. The haft snaps. The essence of sickness rushes out with a burbling moan. The essence take a vaguely humanoid form.

It is waiting. Dhar is back in full view. Black tar sticks to green pus and won’t let go. Talons of darkness tear the demon apart. A scream of darkest magic drives the tattered remains into the realm beyond. The axe pieces are tossed on the fire.

Looking to the waystone, I see only clean lightning and Aqshy. The corruption has been burned away. The red wind has limitations, but fire is an excellent choice for purifying. Here, or there. Maybe I’ll make it after all. I can feel myself starting to burn, and not from the flames. Nurgle is usually a lose/lose sort of thing to face. Fortunately, nothing beats Ghyran for making a body whole.

I get as close as I can, standing stone sized fires put out a lot of heat, and look to the Aethyr. There it is. A stream of pure winds flowing towards Ulthuan. This will be easy. Just reach towards the stream, let the green rise to meet me. Let the earth’s blood enter me. Let the jade wind fill me. Make me whole.

Now let it out. Let it go. The green falls back into the stream.

I am alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Warhammer, magic is divided into eight 'winds'. Magisters, more commonly known as wizards, are trained and government sanctioned spellcasters who specialize in a single wind. Ghyran, the green wind of life, and Aqshy, the red wind of fire, are two of these winds. Each type of wizard belongs to a separate college or Order. Those who specialize in Ghyran are known as the Jade Order or druids. As a Magister progresses in mastery over their chosen wind, their ability to manipulate, and sometimes even see, the other winds decreases. Thus an apprentice may be able to cast a spell their master cannot, if it draws on a wind outside of their order. This is a more restrictive, but safer way to use magic. 
> 
> However, spellcasters can draw on more than one wind to power spells. Naturally, drawing from multiple sources greatly increases the power available, and allows for spells a single wind is incapable of. It also increases the danger, as properly balancing the winds is very difficult. This unbalanced mix of winds is what is generally referred to as 'dark magic'. It is prone to mishap, leakage, and unintended consequences.
> 
> Dhar is the proper name for dark magic, or more precisely, it is the proper name for black magic. Dhar is the winds of magic pressed together and left to stagnate and rot. It is a perversion of the Chaos from which all magic flows. Chaos is all possibilities and none at the same time. As it enters the material world, it becomes subject to our universe's penchant for rules and categories, separating into the eight winds which have less potential but are more stable than raw chaos. Dhar is all those potentialities being reunited where they don't belong. It is the magic of entropy, of fewer and eventually no possibilities. Dhar is the magic of necromancy and undeath.


	2. The Morning After

I am Sommer ‘Rosemary’ Ashdottir Oghammit. To the Empire I am Journeyman Magister of the Jade Order Sommer Oghammit. To my college I am Rosemary Ashdottir. To my family I am Rose or Mary or Oak/Apple/Ivy/Cherry/Fin/Bern/Yew/no-gods-dammit-you!

And I am currently a tree.

In the deep forest, there are few things safer to be than a tree. Other trees don’t mind, as long as you don’t steal their sun for too long. Animals don’t bother you. Even minions of chaos generally ignore you. They’d much rather destroy something that is edible and can feel pain.

As the fires burned I knew I had to get away. The thing was gone, hopefully, and the beastmen dead, but two blazing fires was going to draw attention. In my state, I wouldn’t have cared to face an irate squirrel, and where there are shamans and minotaurs, there are brayherds. So the fires had to be left behind. But darkness is no friend of man. Far too many things can see in it that consider us prey. And even summer nights are cold for the weak and unprepared. I needed many things to be a safe person in the wild forest at night. I did not have many things, but I could be something other than a person.

The leyline was full, blazing with the aftermath of the Storm of Chaos, so I drew from it once again. Shaped the wind to my will and my form to the image in the wind. And so a new tree spent the night resting amongst its neighbors near the foot of the hill, with only a brief dusting of frost to betray unusual origins, watching as the fires blazed merrily through the night. Fortunately trees are not prone to gossip and unfriendly ears weren’t listening to them anyway.

And so I find myself waking from a well-needed rest and needing to reaffirm myself. Being a tree is a fine thing, but too long in another shape and the mind begins to change with it. Sleeping in another form is a particularly good way to forget yourself. Cautionary tales abound of wizards who planted themselves, and a favorite challenge for apprentices is to try identifying all the trees in the college who were once magisters. The official number is few, but no apprentice believes it.

It’s late morning, but remnants of the fires still smolder. All to the good in my mind. With the corruption those beastmen brought, this area needs to cleanse for as long as it can, and it will need revisiting to plant warding herbs and ensure no taint lingers. That is, after a manner, why I was here in the first place.

The Storm brought disaster. Each order had its part to play in breaking it, and now each order has a task in the cleanup. Of all the orders we’re the most stretched, the others undoubtedly think the same, but we’re the ones who are right. Disease and blight are rampant. The north is desolate. The spectre of famine looms. We are supposed to deal with all of that. Feed and cure and cleanse a land that lies quarter broken and at war. That is the official task of our order.

To this we add our unofficial, and most important, duty. Protect the vortex. Of all the orders, ours was the one entrusted by Teclis with true knowledge of the world. Of the tide of magic threatening to drown us all, and the vortex that keeps our world partially, but not overwhelmingly, flooded with magic. Only we, the druids, understand the leylines and waystones, canals and headgates of the Aethyr. The elves maintain the Vortex, the mystical engine that draws the winds out of our world, but the standing stones that channel the winds to that drain lie across the world, and there are not enough elves for all of them. And so, in the Old World, the elves entrust that duty to us. Like with any water system, we check for blockages, maintain the structure, and prevent the flow from being tainted.

That is how I came to be here. The Emperor and his lackeys have laid claim on all master wizards to fulfill various official duties. Telling them to get stuffed would be both illegal and unwise, even if it does misplace our resources somewhat. But while Masters may all be bound to the imperial whim, journeyman disposal is at the discretion of their masters and the college. A number of journeymen found themselves terribly inadequate, quite unsuitable to assist with such important matters. Blockheads of such little skill they’d probably blight the fields rather than blessed them.

As one found particularly lacking, it was thought best that I spend some time alone reconnecting with nature. Paying close attention to the ebb and flow of the green wind, perhaps the world could do what my masters shamefully could not. A map was helpfully provided, so the fool wouldn’t get lost, and paper for writing observations, a punishment task normally reserved for apprentices. My notes! Warp take it, it’s now after noon. The shape is seducing me.

Will to wind, wind to form. Human form, and only human. No bark or leaves or wood inside. Only me.

And I am me! My roots, legs dammit, aren’t as steady as I’d like, but I’m human again. The sunlight on skin feels good, not as good as on leaves but good enough. Warm summer breeze flows around me, and lying on the grass I realize why everything feels so good. 

I’m naked.


End file.
